


Banshees of His Own

by viciouswishes



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-01
Updated: 2003-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 22:59:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viciouswishes/pseuds/viciouswishes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle and Angel must save a surprise guest star by going to the scariest place Doyle knows of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Banshees of His Own

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wolfling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfling/gifts).



Doyle sat on the couch in his apartment drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. They'd almost lost it tonight. He turned off the light; darkness bathed the room as he sunk further into the couch. A nest of slime demons, with their putrid yellow flesh, had stabbed Angel. As Doyle attempted to block the blow, one hit him over the head. He'd been passed out for several minutes before coming to. Angel had carried him to safety, leaving his bloodstains on Doyle's shirt. Then he had gone back and fought the slime demons alone.

Angel had then brought Doyle back to his apartment to clean up and rest. Being too weak to undress himself, Angel helped Doyle take off his grimy clothing and change into clean clothing. It had been awkward - all that not looking and not touching. It reminded him of being in high school, when so concerned about their masculinity, the boys had made sure to shower in every other stall.

He told Angel that he would come back later that night, but the whiskey made him lose time. Let him forget about his failure. Doyle heard a knock on the door, but he didn't move off the couch. He was hoping the noise would end. And that the vampire behind the door would be on his merry way home.

"Doyle." Angel's voice definitely. "Doyle, let me in." There was a pause. "Doyle if you don't open up I'm going to..." Angel broke down the door.

"Jesus." Doyle took another drink, trying to ignore the mess of broken door. "You can't even give a man a moment to answer his own door."

"Sorry," Angel looked down. On the drive here, he had known what to say. "I'll replace the door."

"Don't worry about it." Pieces of the door had landed near his feet and the crunch of them under Angel's feet made him grimace.

"You really should get that fixed soon. Wouldn't want any creatures of the night - besides myself - wandering in." Angel moved to the phone. "I'll call a repairman."

"No." Doyle moved to take the phone from him. "Let's go out."

"You're kind of not in any condition..." Angel laughed nervously as his speech trailed off.

"But I have a big hunk of a vampire to protect me and hold my hair if I puke." Doyle grabbed his coat, stepped over the door fragments, and left his apartment.

As he was part way down the first flight of stairs, Angel came trolling after him. "Where are we going?" Angel smirked. "It's a nice night - lots of hours before sunrise." He ran ahead to hold the door open. "Don't you love crisp fall nights?" Angel purposefully breathed in a large amount of oxygen.

"It's only 70." Doyle crossed the street.

"Definitely not like those Irish nights with the Banshee's screaming across bog and pasture," Angel attempted to use his long forgotten Irish accent. "Only you and the tavern wench near the fire. Your head in her overwrought bosoms. Those where the days."

"I see... The Banshee's supposed to live in the forest. Going to follow me in?" Doyle's shoes crinkled under the fallen leaves. He led Angel to a spot between some hedges and a large oak tree. A darling pagan woman he briefly dated when he first arrived in Los Angeles had shown this spot to him. Her coven sometimes held their circles here, and she believed that it was one of the few perfectly balanced places in all of L.A.

"I give up." Angel sat himself on a bench. "Cordelia was right. She said we'd have to talk about this. I hate when she's right."

Doyle turned toward Angel and joined him on the bench. "I'm sorry," he sighed.

"It wasn't your fault. Things happen. We fight evil."

"But this was different." Doyle kicked at a small pile of yellow and orange leaves. He stared at the ground. "I let you down." He wiped his nose and sniffled.

"Allergies?" Angel handed him a handkerchief. "I think Cordy has some Sudafed back at the office."

Doyle gave him a weak smile.

A rustle echoed through the park. "Perhaps that's your Banshee," Doyle said.

The noise was coming closer to the bench where Doyle and Angel were seated. "Doesn't smell human," Angel said. He vamped out and stood up.

"Or look human," Doyle observed. He pointed to the red reptilian looking demon that had leapt over a small hedge.

The demon was more concerned with whatever or whoever was pursuing it and slammed into Angel. "Where are you going, big guy?" Angel grabbed the demon by his collar.

"There's something after me, man," he said. "You gotta help me. I know you're a vampire and all. But we can work out some sort of deal."

"Why should I?" Angel gripped the demon's collar harder.

"Unhand him," a male voice with an English accent spoke. A man wearing black leather and carrying an axe stepped nearer to them.

"Wesley?" Angel squinted at the man.

"Angel." Wesley walked forward. "I've been tracking this fiend through much of the greater Los Angeles area. He's been preparing for a sacrifice to the demon god, Penlre."

"Penlre," the demon said, "who's that? I for sure don't know what that is. All I know is this crazy Brit here has been trying to wack me for the past couple of weeks."

"You're not evil. Are you?" Wesley inquired. He held the axes in a defensive position. Angel frowned.

"I can vouch for the non-evilness," Doyle spoke up. He wasn't going to let Angel be almost killed twice in one night. "Name's Doyle. I'm a friend and employee of Angel's."

Wesley lowered his axe. The demon seized the moment and attempted to escape Angel's grasp. "What a pretty reunion. Hand me a Kleenex," he spit. "I should really go." They ignored him.

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, Rogue Demon Hunter." The leather swished between his legs as moved toward Doyle offering a handshake.

The demon squirmed; Angel grunted. "What should I do with it, Wesley?"

"Breaking his neck will suffice."

There was a loud snap as Angel's hands jerked the demon's head around. He let the body fall to the wet ground and started to dissolve.

"Thank you," Wesley said. The men stood in silence with each other for a while. "Well, I should be off. A rogue demon hunter's job is never done." Wesley sighed and picked up his axe off the ground.

"Wesley." Angel stopped him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. "Come by tomorrow. We might be in need of some muscle and an expert in demonology. We've had a few cases lately that we could've used an extra hand."

"Again, thank you. Goodnight Angel, Doyle." Wesley nodded to the silent half demon and strode out of the park.

"Guess you'll be needing the help after the lousy job I've been doing." Doyle slumped back on the wooden bench. "I didn't even lift a finger with that one," he pointed the area where the dead demon once lay. "I guess now you'll have Wesley."

The air felt stagnant against Angel's cheek as he chuckled. "I can guarantee that you know how to shoot a crossbow better than Wesley. He just needs a place."

"So you're a vampire of charity, now? Taking pity on two men who can't fight demons." Doyle wished he had brought the whiskey bottle along. He didn't know why he had even agreed to let Angel follow him. Not like he could have gotten away from the vampire if he wanted to - despite performing an uninviting spell.

"But you can." Angel placed his hand on Doyle's shoulder. "You saved those half demons and Cordelia from The Scourge by destroying their weapon before they unleashed it on the boatload. You were the true Champion that night. What do you say," Angel stood up, "we go back to the office; you can crash on my couch; and we can call a repairman for the door tomorrow morning?"

"And then we can go fight something nasty." Doyle touched his forehead.

"I'm glad to see that you're starting to believe..." Angel smiled.

"No," Doyle grimaced. "Vision." He clutched his head and bent forward. "Male. Brown hair. Vampires. A whole nest of them. It's your friend, Wesley."

"Where?" Angel clenched Doyle's shoulders, holding him steady.

"Fifth and Broadway. Down by that Thai restaurant Cordelia likes," Doyle finished.

Both of them sprinted out of the park and back to Doyle's apartment building. Despite having a recent vision, Doyle was only a few paces behind Angel. Thankfully, Angel had driven his convertible over instead of taking the tunnels. He hopped over the side of the car; his coat swished behind him.

Doyle attempted to follow in suit, but missed and banged his knee on the side of the car. For the first time, he regretted his indulgence in whiskey that night. "Fuck." He rubbed his knee as Angel reached over and opened the door. "I guess this is why you're the superhero, and I'm the sidekick. Or pseudo-sidekick."

Angel rolled his eyes. "Buckle up." He turned the key and sped downtown. Doyle's hand reached out to clutch the side of the car, as Angel took a hard left then parallel parked in front of Thai Paitoon Restaurant.

"The alleyway." Doyle pointed beyond several dumpsters and spilled over trash.

Leaping out of the car with his sword in hand, Angel knocked over one of the dumpsters as he made his way to save Wesley. Two demons, similar to the one that Angel had killed, cornered the tied-up Rogue Demon Hunter who had already obtained a bad slash across his face from fighting.

Angel's sword swished through the air and met the broadside of a two-by-four one of the demons had managed to pick up. "Who are you?" the demon yelled.

"I believe that you have my friend there," Angel said and motioned with his head to Wesley.

"He is ours." The demon swung the board toward Angel. It hit the brick alleyway and splinted against the wall. "Fuck."

"I'm here," yelled Doyle as he plowed into the unsuspecting demon. He stumbled past the demon as he attempted to regain his balance. The one guarding Wesley hit Doyle with the top of a garbage can, causing him to blackout once again.

"Stop," hissed the demon holding up a limp Doyle and watching his bound and gagged prisoner. "You can give retribution or your friend here dies."

"Okay." Angel set his sword down and held his hands in plain view. "What do you want?"

"That one," the demon lying on the floor pointed to Doyle, "he owes our boss money. He can get it. You can give us payment for your slaughter. We will give you him, but we are keeping the Hunter."

The other demon laid Doyle's body on the ground, and he, his companion, and Wesley exited through a manhole.

As soon as they were gone, Angel knelt before Doyle's body and held his head up. "Doyle," Angel said. "Are you there? Doyle?"

"Huh?" Doyle blinked and reached for his head. "Don't tell me. I was knocked out again."

"Hold on." Angel helped Doyle prop himself up. "The demons said that they knew you. That you owed them." The men staggered to Angel's car. "Here." Angel opened to the car door for Doyle. "Do you need money?"

"No, I can get myself out of this one. Do we absolutely have to visit the boss?" Doyle's face scrunched in disgust. "Isn't there some lackey I can hand the money to?"

"That's what they said," Angel informed him. Doyle groaned. "The demons have Wesley. We're going to the boss."

"Fine." Doyle slumped down on the seat as Angel braked at a four-way stop. "Take a right here."

They didn't talk about Doyle's money issues on the way there. Doyle only muttered directions to Angel when needed. They pulled to the curb and climbed out of the car. Angel reached for his sword.

"Leave it here," Doyle instructed him. Angel started to protest. "Trust me. This isn't your typical demon establishment. The guy who runs the place gives me the wiggins."

As they walked down the stairs, the air filled with the beginning beats of "YMCA." Doyle's eyes rolled, but he was glad he could get a drink for his splitting migraine that The Village People were not helping with.

"What is this place?" Angel asked Doyle as they went through a metal detector. "Why are all these lawyers here? Is that karaoke 'cause wow, that demon sucks. And why is that baby-eating Fkysa still standing?" Instinctively, he spirited to the bar where the Fkysa was enjoying a cold beer.

Before his hands hit the Fkysa, a demon dressed in a blue sequins suit complimented by a yellow shirt stood between him. "Obviously, someone didn't read the sign." The green demon with red horns pointed to a sign on the wall that read: No weapons or violence allowed. "Calm down, cowboy. The magic will slow those horses down. Did anyone ever tell you what a fetching coat that is? By the way, I'm the Host and owner of this establishment. How about a glass of blood, on the house for..." The Host extended his hand.

"Angel." He returned the handshake.

"Wasn't I clear..." Doyle sighed as he made his way up to Angel and the Host.

"If it isn't my Irish sunset, going to sing me a tune. Where have you been hiding this hunk of vampire?" The Host looked Angel up and down, again. "Now I understand why I'm still flying solo."

Doyle ignored the Host's chitchat. "We're looking for Miniken," he said.

"He's over at his usual back table." The Host pointed through the crowd. "His aura's on the fritz so I'd watch out. Usually he hums of a few bars of 'I've Got You Babe,' but not tonight. He keeps hitting on that Wolfram &amp; Hart lawyer, Lilah. I'd feel sorry for her expect for that whole evil factor. Plus he'll probably end up J. Bobbitted if he really tries anything." The Host took a sip of the drink in his hand as the song switched to Tiffany's "I Think We're Alone Now." "Excuse me, I have to advise this Grunz-Sho that there are just some places you shouldn't place hot coals."

Doyle and Angel made their way to the back of the bar as the Host left them to their own devices. Miniken's cumbersome body filled most of the bench. Wiping a few beads of sweat from his broad red forehead, he negotiated something over his cell phone. "What do you two want?" he hissed. "Yeah, sell them on the fourth. No, not the third, the fourth." He hung up the phone. "So what you rat traps want? Doyle, didn't expect to see you here. I thought I said that when you come and pay me, you come alone. No bodyguards."

"He's not my bodyguard. He's..." Doyle stumbled and glanced nervously at Angel.

"We. We were on a date when the whole misunderstanding happened." Angel smiled. "I wouldn't worry about me, Mr. Miniken." He placed his arm around Doyle.

"Damn homosexuals." He flagged a waiter and ordered another beer. "They even gamble and watch sports now."

"You know," Angel interrupted, "no one says homosexual anymore."

"Where's the money?" Miniken held out his hand, his claws extending for show.

"Here." Doyle handed him a substantial stack of crisp bills. "Now make your call."

Miniken flipped open his cell phone. "Boys," he spoke, "release the hunter. Now," he closed the phone, "the hunter should be here any moment. I don't want to see either of you picking on or picking up my boys. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Angel laughed, grabbing Doyle's hand. They walked toward the entrance.

The tires of a car squeaked as the brakes were slammed, and a door was opened. Out of it tumbled the body of Wesley Wyndam-Price, who proceeded to fall down the stairs and through the metal detector of Caritas. A woman shrieked as the bloodied ex-watcher landed on the floor.

"What in the name of the holy name of Donna Summer is going on?!" The Host rushed to the fallen man.

"I think," Wesley gasped, "I'm all right. What is this place?" He looked up a the Host. "And what are you? I don't ever remember seeing an etching of your kind in my books. Certainly not wearing sequins."

"Welcome to Caritas." The Host helped the man up. "I'm the Host. People and demons sing, and I read their futures. It's a sanctuary. Though it's not every day I get attractive English men in leather falling from the sky."

"I've heard of this place. But I thought it was some sort of demon El Dorado."

"Well, I can't say it shined in gold. But we do have a disco ball." He motioned over to Angel and Doyle. "I believe these are the ones who saved your tea drinking life. Why don't I get an ice pack for that bruise. You don't want to look like my Cousin Numfar in the morning."

"Thank you Angel," Wesley nodded as he sat down at the nearest empty table.

"It wasn't me." Angel blushed in an attempt to be modest. "It was Doyle, here, who saved your life."

"Well, then thank you Doyle." He took a sip of the water one of the Host's waiters had brought over.

"It was nothing. Just something we champions deal with every day," Doyle assured him. And he winked at Angel. "No more banshees tonight."

"Anyone up for a round of karaoke." The Host joined them at the table. "I bet you two didn't know that Doyle has a great set of pipes."


End file.
